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Okay, I’m going public with my love for Kristen Wiig of Saturday Night Live. No, just kidding, I don’t love her, just her kooky characters.

Seriously, I love her eyes, her bipolar mouth, her legs, her everything. No, just kidding, I can’t love her because I’m so married.

Seriously, I’ve Googled every image and shred of information about Kristen, and I’m building a shrine to her in a corner of my bedroom. No, just kidding, it’s not a corner, it’s the whole bedroom, and I’ve moved my wife to the garage to make room for Kristen. No, just kidding, I’m the one who lives in the garage because of my KW-love-obsession.

Seriously, I love every role she plays. No, just kidding, that one with the sonar forehead and the tiny baby hands is sick. So sick I love her love her love her.

Seriously, I need help. Kristen, baby, come to Toronto, I have a small garage and a big heart, we can make out on the sleeping bag between the lawnmower and the bicycles. No, just kidding, you have SNL money, we can afford a hotel room.

No, just kidding, I can’t really leave the garage because my wife will set fire to my KW-love-shrine. Seriously, I have a Wiig obsession of mythic proportions.

No, just kidding, everything about me is proportionate . . . except when I think of her, and then some things do get out of hand. Seriously.